


One More Word

by FiaMac



Series: Psycho Heroes [12]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:12:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7566769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Eames are both out of sorts after that night in Turin.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Eames is in agony waiting for Arthur to bring it up. It being their raucous night of love making, Eames’s heavy-handed displays of jealousy, and Arthur’s surprisingly amenable response… any one of those topics, actually, would make a good start. Anything would be better than this growing silence.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wildest Bird

**Author's Note:**

> Set the morning after "Fall" ends.

The bruises on Arthur’s wrists are shockingly red and violet against white cotton. Were either of them to try and dismiss the night they shared as just another fuck between lovers, one glance at those marks would prove such foolishness impossible.

Eames stands before him and slowly folds the cuffs of Arthur’s sleeves up to the elbow, careful not to touch the irritated skin. He keeps his expression neutral, and Arthur doesn’t say a thing the entire time Eames is bent over the task.

He’s been quiet since they woke, four hours after passing out in a sweaty tangle. They took turns in the shower washing off the previous night’s excesses, sat with the morning news and downed a mountain of room-service breakfast. Not once does Arthur speak except to answer direct questions.

Now they’re just about ready to leave, and Eames is in agony waiting for Arthur to bring it up. It being their raucous night of love making, Eames’s heavy-handed displays of jealousy, and Arthur’s surprisingly amenable response… any one of those topics, actually, would make a good start. Anything would be better than this growing silence that’s gradually suffocating Eames’s new-found confidence.

He gives Arthur’s sleeve a final tuck. “Alright, love?”

Arthur gives him a not-quite smile, stepping away. “I’m good. It doesn’t actually hurt.”

Which is good to know, but not really what Eames was asking about. Still, he lets it go, telling himself that Arthur will speak his mind when he’s ready. It’s not good to push, especially considering he may have pushed more than enough the night before.

He was a bit out of control last night, he realizes, possibly even out of line. Not like they haven’t gotten rough between the sheets before—that’s normally one of their favorite flavors. But Eames knows he broke character last night, brought more to their bed than he usually does. And now he doesn’t know how to backtrack from that, or if he even wants to. If Arthur wants him to. So he lets it go.

Checking out is an interesting affair. Eames knows it isn’t literally possible for the entire building to be staring them down, but it definitely feels that way. He manfully represses the urge to avert his eyes from the staff—he’s never been a shy boy when it comes to sex, and getting told off for making too much noise is hardly risqué by his measure—but he can’t help but blush a little. He’s feeling strangely bashful this morning and, dare he say, vulnerable. The assessing gaze of the doorman is an invasion on his headspace, forcing doubts and self-consciousness onto the thinning remnants of his aggression.

Arthur gets through the process as unfazed as ever, and it’s ridiculous to resent the soft smile Arthur gives the desk clerks when they gawk at his exposed wrists. But Eames just wishes that—this morning of all mornings—Arthur would give a little indication of what he’s actually thinking.

Did he push too far? Did he overlook some gesture of reluctance and assume consent?

Did he take them over a line they weren’t ready to cross?

They drive back to Naples with the radio playing too loud for easy conversation. Eames doesn’t want to be grateful for that, doesn’t want to be _that guy_ , but he is. And when he isn’t sulking out the window, he’s watching Arthur’s hands on the steering wheel, captivated by the strips of bruises and abrasions that testify to Arthur’s capitulation the night before.

He wants to laugh in giddy delight.

He maybe needs to throw up.

 

* * *

 

The worst part is, he’d had plans for after the job.

This time Arthur was going to be both romantic _and_ spontaneous, so he hadn’t let himself overthink it. Didn’t script out the words he’d use, how he would say it. He was just going to _say_ it.

But that all feels so impossible now.

Arthur’s mind is his greatest asset—and often his harshest tormentor. Naturally skilled at retaining and working through large amounts of information, stringently trained to observe and memorize the subtlest of details… all that means he’s able to review the last seven years like a film montage, every crooked smile and deflected comment.

Thinking back on the distance he’s felt from Eames, even since getting together—always thinking it was Eames’s wary caution about letting another person get close, not understanding until last night that the problem has always been _Arthur_ getting close…

He feels like an asshole, realizing he’s been in love with a man that fears him, realizing he’d been about to ask for more than could be given. But mostly because, even knowing that, knowing they will never be on an even keel, nothing changes for him. He isn’t going anywhere. And, God help him, he will never let Eames go.

Even if he doesn’t say it.

 

* * *

 

Eames is ready to crawl out of his skin by the time they get back to the safe house. He’s tired and cramped from sitting in the car for hours—again, Arthur refused to give up the wheel, though that’s at least Arthur behaving normally so Eames didn’t actually mind too much, even if did get mind- and arse-numbing the fourth hour in.

Arthur leads the way into the house, a square little cottage perched on the side of a hill overlooking the bay. He’d been charmed the first time he saw it, imagining Arthur standing barefoot on the tiny porch, sipping expensive coffee in the wee hours while watching the clouds dance over the water.

In his imaginings, Arthur always stands alone.

He dumps their bags in the bedroom while Arthur locks up the PASIV. It’s one of the small routines they’ve acquired over the months, those little gestures of domesticity worked out between them without planning or debate. Arthur—ever the paranoid—manages their home security while Eames gets the lay of the land. Eames does the shopping because Arthur’s approach to food is too utilitarian to be endured, and Arthur always makes sure the dishes are washed. A pattern of give and take that has felt as natural as breathing.

Only today, Eames feels out of place. He had forgotten what it was like to feel so awkward around Arthur.

It doesn’t help that Arthur flits about the small house, busying his hands as if he hasn’t the time to look Eames in the eye. And that’s just the final straw, as far as Eames is concerned.

He corners Arthur in the kitchen, penning him in by the sink before Arthur can suddenly decide that the bathroom needs cleaning or some shit. Arthur stills the moment Eames lays his hands on Arthur’s hips, waiting apprehensively for a lead to follow.

Eames is determined to start this confrontation off with his best foot forward, so he leans in to nuzzle behind one of those adorable ears. To his relief, Arthur instantly leans back against his chest, and the sharpest edge of tension between them dissipates.

“You’ve been ignoring me, pet.”

Arthur doesn’t answer right away, but Eames can feel his deep exhalation. “Probably. Not on purpose, though. I just needed to think, I guess.”

“About last night?”

“Among other things.”

Eames doesn’t like the sound of that at all and doesn’t even attempt to mask the concern in his voice. “Have to admit, you have me worrying, love.”

Arthur turns in his arms, contrition pulling his face into a frown. “I’m sorry. That’s not… I’m fine. We’re fine.”

“Are we, though?”

“Eames—”

“Are you okay with what we did last night? What I did?”

The utter shock and indignation on Arthur’s face is even more of a balm than his words. “Of course. That was… that was the hottest fucking thing in my life.”

“Ah,” Eames finally lets the tight hold ease from his shoulders. “Good, then. That’s… good.”

“Eames, tell me you weren’t worried that—”

He shrugs, vaguely embarrassed now that he doesn’t have to be afraid. “A little bit, yeah. You were so quiet this morning. I wasn’t—”

Arthur’s hands come up to grasp him almost painfully tight around the arms. “No. Not even a little,” he emphasises, looking distraught. “I… Fuck. I’m sorry I made you question that. For the record, I loved everything we did last night, and I’m up for a repeat any time you want.”

“I won’t deny that’s a relief, love. But why then the silent treatment?” he asks, and watches Arthur disappear within his own mind for a minute. There’s some kind of internal debate going on, he can tell, but nothing in Arthur’s pensive expression gives him a hint of what it’s about or how he should be feeling about it.

“Hold on,” Arthur says suddenly. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to give you.”

He pulls away and goes into the bedroom, returning with his moleskin notebook in hand. From between the pages, he draws out a single piece of paper and hands it to Eames. It’s clear from the pinched set of his eyes and the tight angle of his jaw that Arthur is nervous about giving the paper over, and Eames looks at it with trepidation.

It’s a list of neatly written numbers. Eames immediately recognizes them as coordinates, but he’s still about to ask for clarification when he recognizes some of the locations. New York, London, and Paris are easy. One that’s probably Japan or South Korea. Spain. Somewhere near the Alps. Southern Italy.

And then he understands, fingers tightening on the paper. These are the locations of Arthur’s safe houses—the places he disappears to so thoroughly that even Eames could never find him.

And Eames knows what this is, what Arthur is giving him, what it means. This is more than a statement of trust; it’s impossible for him to doubt Arthur’s trust after last night, and that’s never really been an issue between them. This, however… this is permanence, representing in rows of tidy handwriting the one thing that no one has ever had, not even Cobb, to his knowledge—an open invitation, an all-access pass to Arthur, himself.

Arthur just handed him a declaration of undying devotion, whether he knows it or not. Does he know it? But Arthur never does anything without purpose, so surely that means—

“Anyway,” Arthur’s higher-than-usual voice cuts across his thoughts. “I just wanted you to have those. In case we… just in case.” And Eames can see panic in the backs of Arthur’s eyes, telling Eames he spent far too long staring silently at his gift, lost in his own elation.

Arthur is already drawing away, putting space between them. “So… do you want to go out for dinner, or should we find a store?”

Instead of answering, Eames reaches out wraps his hand around Arthur’s perfectly knotted tie, forcibly preventing him from turning away. Arthur’s reflexive scowl makes his heart flip.

“Eames?”

He shakes his head, amused with himself. This isn’t how he would have pictured things going, had he allowed himself to imagine it. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’m having a moment.”

“Okay. Um…”

And then he just… says it. “I love you, Arthur.”

 

* * *

 

The world stops.

Six fucktillion tons of matter come screeching to a halt beneath Arthur’s feet, leaving him lurching in the inertia. And when reality resumes, it brings with it the sick feelings of crushing want and bitter refusal.

He shunts his gaze to the side, unable to watch his own train wreck. “You don’t… you don’t have to—”

Before he can finish forcing the words out, Eames is clutching at Arthur’s rigid shoulders, bringing them close.

“No, no, darling. Let’s have no misunderstandings now.” He cups one hand around Arthur’s jaw, preventing the loss of eye contact. “This isn’t some sad form of gratitude or whatever else your naggy little brain is thinking.”

Eames takes a breath, looking for all intents and purposes like a man that knows what he’s walking into. If Arthur dares to believe that. “What I mean to say is, I have been in love with you for quite some time now. I was infatuated with you even years before that, and I’ll freely admit that I’ve been too much of a coward to tell you how I feel. How I’ve always felt.”

And they’re wonderful words. Everything he’s wanted to hear. But the cost of hope may be too high for him to pay. “Tell me now,” he challenges.

Eames smiles, indulgent and warm. “You’re a complicated man, and I’ve always stuck to the simpler side of things. It’s easier, yeah? But I don’t want to spend my life on easy. I just want you, however I can have you.”

And Arthur wants to tell Eames that he can have anything he wants. Everything. But no one has wanted everything, before. Not all that Arthur is and has to give. “Are you sure about this?”

Eames reaches for Arthur’s hand, raises it to press a gentle kiss on the red band of skin on his wrist. Arthur’s breath goes shallow. “I suppose one could say that, in losing my mind last night, I came to my senses. And I love you.”

Arthur stays silent. Years’ worth of thoughts and feelings are swirling around his head, and they won’t stay still long enough for him to articulate any of them. He’s sure Eames can feel his pulse leap beneath his palm, must know that Arthur is a few gasps away from hyperventilating because he eases back, a look of patient understanding on his face.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he soothes. “It’s okay.”

But it’s not okay.

It’s not okay at all. Arthur can’t _think_ , can’t process any of this while they’re so far apart. And without knowing or caring how, Arthur is in his arms—Jesus, those arms—using their strength to keep himself from shuddering apart. He buries his face in Eames’s neck, absorbing the warmth and musk of him, taking it into himself now that he’s allowed to, now that this is something he can have.

“ _I love you_ ,” he rushes out in a choked whisper. And then he says it again, and again, keeps pressing the words into Eames’s skin as if to embed them into the very DNA that created this man, so that Arthur’s love will always be an inherent part of the whole.

He feels Eames’s entire body go lax seconds before he’s crushed in a tight embrace. A trembling hand rakes through his hair, clenches and stays. And then Eames is kissing him, they’re kissing each other, like their entire lives could be lived between their lips. Soft, deep, feral, teasing. They’re both shaking.

And so it goes, until they’re left clinging, holding one another upright, exhausted and exalted.

Eames pulls back to regard Arthur with a light smile, blinking moisture from his eyes. “Well, then… dinner?”

Arthur cozies back in against his chest. “Actually, what I’d really like is a nap,” he admits.

“Oh, thank god,” Eames laughs. “I’m completely knackered.”

They’re in bed not one minute later, fully naked and fully hard but content to let arousal curl between them for now. As they drift in and out of sleep, they whisper love confessions to each other like giddy adolescents. Eames doesn’t let go of Arthur’s hand even once.

For two men that create marvels and mysteries for a living, it’s a simple moment, but it’s the most perfect one either of them could devise. _It really is the little things_ , Arthur thinks. And then he smiles.

“So…what are your plans for Christmas?”

 


	2. That River Flows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picks up a couple of hours following the events of chapter one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "One More Word" was officially finished after the first chapter. But as I'm posting this, it has now been one full year since I first posted "It's Just a Twitch", the one-shot that exploded into this delightful series. I decided Eames and Arthur needed to celebrate this little anniversary of ours with some fluff and lovin' -- more porn with feels, in other words.  
> Also, let me take a moment to thank everyone that has read and enjoyed the Psycho Heroes stories, especially those of you who have taken the time/interest to subscribe, bookmark, comment and otherwise encourage this endeavor. It's been a joy and an honor for me to be part of this community. You've been so welcoming, supporting, and all-around wonderful. You've helped me rediscover an art that I love but have struggled with, and if I could be considered a successful writer, it's largely due to you.  
> I look forward to continuing on with you all, reading and writing about these incredible characters.  
> Cheers,  
> Fia

It’s deep into the night by the time Arthur wakes from their nap. He finds himself snuggled in against Eames’s side, arms and legs tangled, with the blankets kicked down around their feet.

He considers Eames’s sleeping face, amuses himself with all the little freckles and wrinkles that are impossible to notice when Eames is awake—animated and commanding attention to the overall persona he creates instead of the individual, revealing details. But Arthur covets the chance to see all those tiny marks and imperfections, in these quiet moments when they’re just two men in a private space.

Two men in love, apparently.

Arthur smushes his face into the pillow, grinning like a loon into the plush fabric.

He’s a man in love. A man that is loved.

It seems so incredible, so extraordinary, like he remembers natural dreams used to be. He feels like heart could flutter out of his chest and straight into the exosphere, even as he feels this ponderous grounding deep in his soul.

He giggles.

“I hope you weren’t peeking at my bits just now.”

Arthur looks up from the pillow, lashes tangling on his disastrous hair, and meets the soft smile Eames gives him. His eyes are lit with humor but not yet fully awake, a glazed and heavy look that makes Arthur think wonderfully impure things.

“Rest assured, laughter is not typically my reaction to your bits.”

“Oh, yes? Tell me more.” Eames rolls onto his side and Arthur shifts a little to share the pillow.

“I don’t think I should. Your ego is inflated enough already.”

“That’s not the only thing getting inflated.”

Arthur snorts at the cheap innuendo. “Low-hanging fruit, even for you.”

Eames smiles innocently. “I thought you liked the way it hangs. In fact, just the other day, when you had your mouth—”

Arthur laughs and kicks Eames’s ankle beneath the covers. “Stop.”

“Afraid you’ll need to be more convincing than that.”

Arthur smirks right before he springs. Eames may be stronger, but he’s always been faster and sneakier. With a sudden move, he has Eames on his back, arms pinned to the mattress beside his head. In this position, there’s no disguising the press of Arthur’s erection into Eames’s stomach, and he feels an answering twitch against his thigh.

Eames leers up at him, eyeing Arthur’s naked torso with open appreciation. “Probably not as convincing as you meant to be, love.”

“Nope. This is exactly what I had in mind.” Arthur swivels his hips, rubbing his erection back and forth across the strip of hair beneath Eames’s navel. The silky-rough texture jolts his senses and banishes the last vestiges of sleepiness.

“Thank god.” Eames yanks his arms free and levers up to wrap them around Arthur.

The kiss, at first, is strong and forceful, depressurizing the pent up desire that accumulated while they laid tangled together in bed. But as the seconds tick along, Eames’s grasping hands glide up to cup the side of Arthur’s face, his mouth gentling on Arthur’s lips into smooth sweeps and lingering touches.

Arthur feels the change in mood and instinctively responds to it, even though his arousal continues to throb. The urge to rush things through to completion is strong, but that impulse is beat out by the simple need to be as close to Eames as possible. To have every inch of that body impressed on his skin, the exact shape and taste and scent of Eames committed to memory.

He blinks through the sudden welling of his eyes just as Eames pulls back to study him with a tiny smile.

“I love you.” Eames’s voice is hushed and rough, a testament to all the unspoken weight behind those three little words.

Arthur swallows a gasp. It’s still too new, still catches him unprepared to hear it. And the multitude of fears and longings cram up against his heart before he remembers that he doesn’t have to keep all that bottled up now. Doesn’t need to deny himself—themselves—any longer.

“I love you, too.” His own admission is quieter but quick to rush out of him. Like a small bird darting into the unsheltered sky, wary but daring and proud to take wing. And he’s rewarded for his faith by the way Eames’s smile widens into a bright, sunny thing, and Arthur has never felt so free as this.

The words start tumbling out on their own then, revelations of how he’s loved Eames for years and years, how afraid he was to ever say it, to believe that they could have this, how it would have been worth it anyway but this is so much better, and he's just so damned happy.

And Eames kisses the confessions off of his lips, breathes them in and pushes a repeated litany of _I love you_ back into Arthur’s mouth.

 

 

Eames whispers promises of love until his voice fails him, throat closing on the rush of emotions too overwhelming to articulate.

He turns, instead, to more instinctive forms of expression. He maps the contours of Arthur’s mouth with his tongue and muses on the many ways these familiar sensations suddenly feel different. How one fundamental change can alter his entire world.

Not to say that he believed the poets of the centuries lied… just that Eames never expected to experience this for himself.

He drags his lips over Arthur’s jaw, toying with the hint of stubble that adds an extra layer of sensation. Moving further down to the throat below, he buries his nose in the elegant scent of Arthur’s skin, still so warm and pliant from sleep.

Arthur’s hands are searing brands on his chest and shoulders, tracing the swirls of ink with calloused palms. Eames leans into the touch, flexes the muscles he knows Arthur enjoys to fondle. Sure enough, those lean hands clutch at him tightly before sweeping back around for seconds.

He curls his own hands around Arthur’s rocking bum, dragging him against the hard ridge of his cock until twin moans fill the air between them. Eames can feel Arthur shudder in his arms, and his fingers reflexively trail down to dip towards that sweet entrance.

Arthur flinches away with a hiss.

“Sorry. Shit.” Eames withdraws his hands back to safer places, feeling the sharp sting of contrition. “I was too rough last night. I’m sorry.”

“Shut up. I loved it.” Arthur tries to rub back against Eames’s cock, but Eames holds his hips still.

“No. I need to be more careful.” He draws Arthur close for another kiss, conveying his apologies through the lightest of nibbles. “Let me be careful with you.”

He doesn’t wait for Arthur’s acquiescence—he knows how stubborn his lover can be. He leans back against the headboard and keeps Arthur tucked tight against him. Arthur takes charge of the kiss with bold forays of his tongue, head slanted for maximum contact. He continues downward, and Eames tilts his head back so Arthur can have full access to his neck.

He hears a hum of approval, knows that Arthur is licking at the patchwork of bite marks and bruises on his skin—bruises mirrored by the shadows of fingertips dotted along Arthur’s hips and thighs. Last night’s passion had burned fervently in both of them, and they had made a glorious wreck of each other before Eames had taken the upper hand.

He challenges Arthur’s control now by thumbing at Arthur’s nipples, works them with the edge of his nail in order to give him that hint of pain which never fails to crank Arthur’s ardor up a degree or two. But Arthur decides to return the favor by ducking down to mouth at Eames’s chest, and Eames gasps when he catches a pink nub between his teeth and torments him with a slow back and forth scraping.

Eames ups the ante and reaches between them to clasp both erections in a loose fist. Soft, sweeping strokes instead of the firm pressure they’re both eager for. When Arthur leans back, he’s looking a little wild around the eyes and begins to push up into Eames’s hand with increasing demand.

“Eames.”

Eames will never get enough of his name coming from that heavy voice. He sits up a little to kiss the side of Arthur’s mouth. “What do you need? I want to give you anything you need.”

Arthur tugs free of his hold and moves down until his face is level with Eames’s cock. The tip of his tongue instantly goes to the wet slit, lapping up the moisture beading there, and Arthur’s eyes close on a blissful moan.

“Shit.” Eames winds his fingers through Arthur’s tangled hair and angles up into that mouth. Arthur takes him eagerly, lets Eames glide over the slick velvet of his tongue over and over again until Eames can feel his control unraveling. “Oh god, your mouth is gonna kill me some day. Just like that, god, yes.” He feels more than hears Arthur whimper, and it makes his head spin. “Christ, you love this. Want me to come in your mouth, don’t you? Always so hungry for it. Fuck. D’you know what that does to me? Feels so good. Could spend the whole day with your tongue wrapped around my cock.”

Arthur pulls off with a panted cry, eyes locked on Eames’s wet cock, and then dives back down to mouth at his balls. He shoves Eames’s thighs wider to give himself room to suck one into his mouth, that tongue moving faster than Eames can track and leaving him a damp, moaning mess.

Eames gasps as a particularly sharp tug of Arthur’s mouth makes every muscle in his body coil with tension. "Fuck, sweetheart, I need to come. Make me come.”

Arthur is quick to bring Eames’s cock back into his mouth, sucking strong on the head while one hand strokes the base with a steady rhythm. His free hand snakes up Eames's torso in a blind caress, and Eames presses his own hand to it, curls their fingers together in a grip that gets tighter and tighter as his pleasure climbs towards completion. And Arthur, always so attentive, wriggles his tongue in just the right spot to shove him over that crest.

Eames comes on a drawn out groan. Arthur mewls at each liquid pulse, and Eames can feel that greedy tongue lapping up every drop. Drinking him down, seeking more. Eames knows from past experience that Arthur, left to his own devices, would happily suck away until Eames was hard again, ready to come again.

Another time, maybe. He touches Arthur’s shoulder to nudge him away. Arthur rears back on his knees, and Eames can’t help but shiver at the fevered craze on his face.

Arthur urges him onto his stomach, and he goes willingly, even before he hears Arthur’s heated plea. “I need to—inside you. Can I—”

Eames answers by lifting his arse up, thighs spread, and hears Arthur curse. The bed bounces as Arthur scrambles off. Eames can hear him digging through the bathroom cupboard and then the still-unpacked luggage. He’s back quickly, clutching at Eames’s hips, nudging into his anus with a slippery finger.

Eames tries to relax, but he can sense Arthur vibrating with unfilled need, can feel the edge of teeth against his shoulder blades as Arthur opens him up bit by bit. It keeps his own desire banked at an unrelenting simmer, a sympathetic arousal.

The stretch of two fingers inside him is almost too much this soon after orgasm, but Eames savors the intensity and the consideration that Arthur is trying so hard to show him.

“It’s okay,” he says with an impatient shimmy. “I’m ready.”

Arthur curls over him, brushes his lips along the side of Eames’s neck. “Shh. I get to be careful with you, too.”

Arthur spreads him gently but insistently with two fingers until he’s soft and open. Then Eames can feel the head of his cock pressing in slow, steady and patient, completely at odds with the jackhammer thrum of Arthur’s heart against his back. Eames breathes out, bearing down on the thick intrusion. No matter how many times they do this, that pain-pleasure feeling is always new and thrilling. Always breaks him apart on a visceral level right before the heady fullness remakes him, makes him feel like he’s being taken for the first time.

They both moan when Arthur bottoms out, their bodies sealed together. Arthur’s head drops onto his shoulder, and Eames can feel the frantic energy in him ease away now that they’re connected. When Arthur starts to thrust into him, the pace is almost leisurely, micro movements that gently shift his cock inside Eames while maintaining as much depth as possible.

And it may be that he’s just imagining things, but it feels different this time, being together like this, now. Time moves slower, the heat between them burns deeper, and he’s impossibly aware of all the places where their bodies touch. Not just the press of Arthur’s hips against his arse and the heavy weight of him on Eames’s back. But also the cool sweep of Arthur’s hair against his jaw, the soft lines of skin along his inner arms bracketing Eames’s shoulders. It’s almost painfully real, more than anything he’s experienced before, and if this is what love is then Eames can only regret the time they’ve wasted however much he rejoices what they have now.

Because what they have is the best fucking thing he’s ever known.

Eames braces himself on his arms and lets Arthur rock into him without concern for his own pleasure. Every now and then, Arthur’s cock glides across that sweet spot, making him shiver with oversensitivity, but he stays in that warm afterglow state even as Arthur’s breathing gets increasingly jagged against his neck.

“Eames.”

Arthur’s voice has a guttural tone that let’s Eames know how very close he is to coming. He cants his head back to brush his lips against Arthur’s temple. “Yes. Come for me. Let me feel you. Want to feel you.”

“Eames.” Arthur buries his face in Eames’s shoulder as he drives his cock in with stronger thrusts.

“Come, love. Come for me.” Eames can feel the tension building in arm Arthur wraps around his waist, in the legs shaking against the backs of his thighs. So he steadies his stance and clenches down tight around the next inward thrust.

_“Eames.”_

Arthur’s cry is a hot gust against his skin. Eames reaches back to thread his fingers through Arthur’s hair and tilts his arse up into Arthur’s stuttering hips. They ride the aftershocks together, easing down onto the bed until Eames sprawls flat out with Arthur plastered to his back, spent cock laying soft and wet against his thigh.

They stay just like that for several long minutes, while Arthur’s breath levels out and their bodies cool. Eames is content to languish there indefinitely, but Arthur eventually slithers down to his side and gazes at him.

“I love you,” he says, voice husky and rich like crystalized honey, but it’s the expression on Arthur’s face… It holds a serenity that Eames doesn’t often see—Arthur always seems braced for the next crisis, the unseen shot fired from behind. Except now, in this moment, where all the world-worn armor has given way to contentment. Much as Eames cherishes Arthur’s darling scowls and heated glares, this open happiness is something he could definitely get used to.

He brings a hand up to the side of Arthur’s face, brushes his thumb along the hidden smile lines under his eye. “And I love you. More than I know how to say.”

Arthur leans in for a kiss. “Those are the only words I need.”

  

* * *

 

_"Hey, kid. We were just talking about you.”_

“Good things, I hope.”

_“I make no promises.”_

“Funny.”

_“You know me, life of the party. So how are you?”_

“I… I’m great. I’m really great.”

_“Oh, yeah? Do tell.”_

“Well. You can tell Mom to expect one more for Christmas.”

_“You sly dog, won him over, huh? I knew you had it in you.”_

“Thanks. I think.”

“ _Tell me everything. Spare no details.”_

“I’m not giving you details. I keep telling you, we don’t need to have a birds-and-birds talk.”

_“Now, now. Don’t be like that. You know, when I was your age…”_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "If Not for Love" by Kris Delmhorst
> 
> Look for the [Psycho Heroes Soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/qvxh3o4rvca6soodo82lagqt8/playlist/2TOcGz53b6ONaVS8Q3gIGZ) on Spotify!


End file.
